


Reflections and Windows

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Series: The Problem With Galas [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, All Tim wants to do is please his parents and get some love, And also very lonely, Batman is Batdad, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce Wayne is intensely awkward, Bruce sort of adopts him anyway, Child Abandonment, Dad Bruce Wayne, EVERYONE SHOULD LOVE TIM, Family Issues, Galas are horrible, Gen, Grownups being mean, He be smol and smart, He's not living with Bruce yet, He's smart like that, Ice Cream, Janet Drake is not a nice lady, Kid Tim Drake, Lectures, Protective Bruce, Protective Bruce Wayne, The kid also is scarily self sufficient, Tim drake needs a hug, Tim notices something off, Tim's parents are still alive, Tim's parents aren't very nice, To the point that it's concerning, broken things, daddy!Bats, give him a break, i love tim, well he's trying at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 02:11:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14606934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: Galas are an issue, because something always goes wrong, and no one knows this better than Timothy Drake. (It's a bit of a problem, actually, but he can always depend on Bruce to get him out of trouble.)In which Tim is nine, attending his hundredth gala, still desperately trying to get his parents' approval and affection, Bruce is getting better at this whole kid thing, and there is a broken vase.They figure things out, eventually.





	Reflections and Windows

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE TIM SO MUCH!!!
> 
> He's really hard to write though, but I hope you love him too!
> 
> Also, I didn't edit this as much as I usually do? I edit all my own work, but I'm tired so I decided not to today. I'll probably come back to it at some point, but for now there might be some errors. Feel free to point them out if you see any, and thanks in advance for the help!
> 
> WARNING: There is some reference to child abandonment. If this'll trigger you, please avoid reading. YOUR HEALTH AND HAPPINESS ARE MORE IMPORTANT AND I LOVE YOU!!!!

Tim sat very still and very straight.

He was also very, very silent.

He was being good.

He was _good_.

If he was good, Mother couldn’t complain and Father couldn’t give his disappointed sigh, and then maybe- _maybe-_ they could take him on their next trip. If he was good, there wouldn’t be any leaving behind, or loneliness, or big empty houses with nothing to do.

He just had to be good. It was just one gala, just one simple, measly gala, something he had done a thousand times before, and then he’d be home free.

Tim breathed in for four seconds, held it for seven, and released it for eight. Then he did it again.

And again.

Dr. Andrew Weil originally invented the breathing technique for helping people get to sleep, but Tim figured he could use it for calming down a bit as well. No one would have to know, and if someone noticed, well- Tim could play dumb. Or something.

No one needed to know.

He could say that he was just playing with his breath and wasn’t trying to imitate some breathing pattern he found on the internet after cracking the password for the family laptop in the middle of the night because he wasn’t sleeping well.

(Because he had a nightmare, although no one needed to know that either.)

It wasn’t _lying._ It just wasn’t… telling the whole truth.

Yeah.

_…..yeah._

The limo stopped, and Tim took one last slight breath. Mother finally looked up from her phone, glancing once at Tim and then at her husband before putting it away into her bag. In milliseconds, a massive smile plastered on her face.

“Smile, Timothy.”

Tim didn’t really feel like smiling. He had stayed up late last night waiting for his parents to come home, and he was _tired._

But that didn’t really matter.

Tim smiled.

_(Just this one gala, get through this one gala. You don’t want to be left behind again, do you?)_

Tim could be good. Tim _would_ be good.

They got out of the car.

The camera flashes were bright and sudden as they exited the vehicle, flashing everywhere and to such extremes that Tim sort of wanted to hold his dad’s hand. Not that he _needed_ to, of course. Holding hands was for kids of less proper upbringing and mature status.

At least, that was what Mother said.

_(Tim hasn’t held anyone’s hand since he was four years old.)_

They entered the building, and Tim blinked the afterimage of the camera flashes away. He made sure to keep his back straight and his steps long enough to not slow his parents down, walking just behind them and keeping quiet with a general pleasing expression on his face all the while.

_(Out of sight, out of mind. The way any good little boy should be.)_

When someone _did_ talk to him, he was very polite. He said his _please’s_ and _thank you’s,_ his _How do you do?’s_ and general small talk. He even managed to greet each person by name with only three mistakes in total, a new record.

He was to memorize the guest list the night before, and he was to be able to match each name to a face. Mother said that it gave the family a better public image, that it made people feel important, so Tim had to do it. It was difficult, considering the three hundred members who had accepted the invitation, but Tim did it. He always did.

_Are you proud of me yet? Am I enough yet?_

_I did what you asked. I did my very best._

_(Why is that never enough for you?)_

His parents sipped wine as red as his mother’s lipstick. The hours passed, one after another after another, and Tim wished he had a watch. He wished he could get a drink. He wished the gala was over.

It wasn’t. And there was no use in complaining: it usually just made his parents stay _longer._ Tim didn’t want that.

So he stayed quiet.

A politician- _Tim’s mind raced through hundred of faces, settling on the image of the lady in front of him. Her name was Amanda. Amanda Walker? No... Amanda Waller-_ crouched down and shook his hand, greeting him. Tim smiled his best smile, greeted her back, and his voice caught in the back of his throat.

He turned to the side and coughed into the elbow of his suit, apologizing profusely and making it the rest of the way through the conversation without clearing his throat once, even though his body screamed at him to do it.

As soon as the lady wandered off, Tim caught the disapproving glare Mother sent his way. He smiled weakly.

She didn’t smile back.

(Tim wasn’t really expecting it. All previous data indicated that it wouldn’t be happening any time soon, either.)

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

_I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Please- I’m_ _sorry-_

It was at this moment Bruce Wayne himself appeared before them, bright and loud and _everywhere._ Tim wasn’t sure what to do with the man. Not now, not ever. He was always _so much._ And he was different, as if layers existed under his layers.

Like he wasn’t real, but not in the fake way so many people conducted their manner at galas and public affairs, all trying to get as much attention and limelight as humanly possible, all trying to absorb the most amount of fame and god like status that they could.

It was as if Bruce Wayne was trying to reflect that shine, to make everyone blind enough with that light that they don’t even realize it’s a mirror and not something coming through the window inside of him.

Tim liked to study him, sometimes, liked to see the little differences. Bruce always seemed to know where everything is in a building before he entered it, even if it was his very first time there. Bruce always had a glass of alcohol on hand, but he very rarely drank any himself, even on the nights that he seemed to go home drunk.

Bruce’s eyes were _intelligent._ They were smart and clear and _bright._ They caught onto the little things of a scene, spotted the little details that others might miss.

_(His eyes are like mine, Tim thinks, but he never says it.)_

But perhaps the biggest thing that points to _more_ is the simple, simple fact that Bruce adopted.

Dick Grayson. He adopted _Dick Grayson._

Tim had watched videos. He knew who Dick Grayson was, who he turned out to be. Had seen the classic rags to riches stories come to life one article and blip of information at a time.

_(Tim had been there, that night, the night of the fall. He had been young, very young, but the images play through his mind even now as a half dreamed reality. He remembered Grayson hugging him before the show, laughing and spinning him around, remembered the lights, the music, the colours.)_

_(Remembered the fall, the bodies cracking against the ground, the blood splattering everywhere, people yelling and yelling and yelling)_

_(Remembered Grayson screaming.)_

_(It’s not something you forget.)_

When Bruce was with Dick, his whole demeanor changed. He was softer and brighter and kinder, caring in ways Tim used to be sure only existed on T.V.

Tim was still pretty sure it only existed on T.V. There was no way that that sort of relationship actually existed, it had to be pretend, had to be an act.

Had to be. All the information Tim has gathered over years and years of galas and his own experiences indicated that such openly caring relationships were a thing of myth.

And yet…

When Dick and Bruce interacted with each other, it always seemed like the realest thing in the room to Tim.

(But maybe that was just Tim. His Mother did say his mind went to far away sometimes.)

All this and more filtered through Tim’s brain before his hand was fully extended to shake Wayne’s own.

“Good evening, Mr. Wayne,” here, Tim swallowed, trying to get some liquid into his dry throat, “How do you do? Thank you for inviting us.”

The older man laughed, loud and bright, and shook the proffered hand with enthusiasm, making Tim crack a smile a little more real than fake.

He caught his mother’s eagle eye.

His smile slipped back into simply being polite.

“Evening, Tim!” no one calls Tim, well, Tim except for Mr. Wayne, “it great to see ya, kiddo. I’m pretty fantastic right about now, but you know what’ll make me even more fantastic?”

The man leaned closer, wiggling his eyebrows

Tim smiled a little more real again at the sheer ridiculousness of it, tried to hide it, and failed. Quietly, he asked, “What, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce grinned, all white teeth and crinkly corner eyes.

“ _Ice cream.”_

_Ice cream?_

Tim wasn’t sure as to what to do. He glanced upwards at his Mother, but she simply raised an eyebrow at him before turning back to the man she was talking with- _Harold Franks,_ his mind supplied him- and continued their conversation.

He was on his own.

(Tim didn’t doubt she was listening though. Mother was always listening, preying on weakness like a lioness preys on an impala.)

He tried for another smile.

“I hope you enjoy your ice cream then, Mr. Wayne.”

He thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t the end of it.

“Oh no, kiddo, I need you for my ice cream heist! Everyone knows having a child conspirator increases ice cream extraction operations by at least seventy percent!”

It took approximately five seconds of panicking for Tim to realize that the man was joking, that not everyone knew of such a factor and that, indeed, said factor probably wasn’t even based in statistics.

“Oh- heheh-” he was taking too long to respond, way too long, Mother was going to be so _mad, “_ I’m- I’m sure Richard will happily help you, Mr. Wayne.”

There, easy solution.

Except-

“No, I’m afraid that this grave mission falls upon our soldiers alone, Tim. Dick’s home with the flu, so I’m going to have to depend on you.”

Tim _almost_ licked his lips, a nervous habit that he sometimes did when he was thinking especially hard, but stopped himself at the last moment. Last time he had done it at a gala, Mother had scolded him for a full fifteen minutes about how certain body movements expressed _weakness,_ about how as a _Drake Heir,_ he was supposed to be better than that.

Tim got better.

_I did what you asked. I’m doing my very best._

_(Are you proud of me yet? Am I enough yet? )_

He swallowed again, too-dry throat protesting.

“I’d, uh,” _Stuttering, bad!_ “I’d be happy to be a of service, sir. As long as my Mother says it’s okay…?”

Internally, Tim winced at all the hesitation his sentence pertained. He should _be better._ Externally, he only turned to Mother with as schooled as an expression as he could manage.

Mrs. Drake was smiling, but there was something sharp in her eyes. Tim felt his heart sink: he had disappointed her.

_(Why am I never enough for you?)_

“Of course, darling. Hop along with Brucie and come find us when you’re done.”

Tim looked round at the hundreds of guests towering above him like a forest of fully grown trees, and he wanted to ask _How?_

But he didn't.

Bruce proffered a hand to hold, and Tim couldn’t help but stare at it for several seconds before he grabbed at it, feeling _weird_ and self conscious and strange.

_(It’s been a long time since Tim was four years old. It’s been a long time since he’s held anyone’s hand.)_

He wanted to stay with Mother. He wanted to stay with his parents and not have to go with this strange man that Tim didn’t understand- _And so very often he understands people far too well, so why not him?-_ to where he couldn’t control the situation.

He didn’t want the change the hand offered to him.

But Tim was going to be good, worthy of the Drake name. He was.

He took the hand.

Bruce weaved his way through the crowds, slow and steady and parting the masses of people like Moses parted the sea. He walked besides Tim, pace languid enough for even the young boy to keep up with without hurrying his steps. And as they drifted away from the guests and partygoers, his smile became less and less wide and more and more real, like his father’s sometimes did after they watched a football game together.

Tim didn’t speak- _Out of sight out of mind-_ but he watched their steps align again and again, and wondered why Bruce had not let go.

Finally, they entered the kitchen, and Bruce gestured to the smooth marble island set up in the center of it all. The room must not have been the main area, because there weren’t any servers making their ways through the room, just Tim and Bruce and a lot of awkward atmosphere.

Tim, making sure Bruce wasn’t looking, quickly licked his chapped lips.

“So, kiddo, what sort of ice cream do you want? It seems we have chocolate, vanilla, cookies and cream, and mint chocolate chip. Have any favourites?”

He didn’t bite his lip, but it was a close thing. He _wanted_ the mint chocolate chip, but- but that wouldn’t be what his Mother would want him to say. That wouldn’t be polite.

So, instead-

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce stopped. Stared.

Tim stared back, every muscle frozen.

“How about some Mint Chocolate Chip, then, yeah?”

Slowly, slowly, Tim smiled.

“That sounds perfect, Sir.”

They had ice cream.

It was good.

The conversation was better.

Tim hadn’t had so much undivided attention from a single person since his seventh birthday party, and he hadn’t had so much undivided attention from a single person that he actually _enjoyed_ since… ever.

Bruce was _smart._ He knew so much about everything, and he brought up so many interesting points of discussion, sometimes even bringing up things that _Tim_ knew _nothing_ about, and he didn’t care if Tim asked questions or shared what he did know and-

And-

And it was really, really nice.

The man even brought them both a cup of water to sip while they talked, and Tim’s polite _Thank you_ was far more relieved than he meant it to be.

(But, for once, Tim didn’t think anyone would mind.)

Time slipped by until, at last, Mr. Wayne had to ‘regretfully inform him’ that it was time to find his parents. Tim didn’t want the conversation to end, didn’t want to stop, but he didn’t complain, simply nodded and slipped off the stool, bringing his dishes to the sink and placing them there.

Mr. Wayne was probably getting bored of him anyways.

(Everyone always did, eventually.)

(And then they left him alone.)

“I can help you find your parents, if you want, Tim.”

That _would_ be nice. Bruce was tall enough that he could actually see over the many heads of the crowd, and that meant he had a far greater probability of spotting his Mother and Father, but-

But-

But Tim had already taken up so much of his time. It would be rude at this point to make him stay with him even _longer._

Besides, Tim knew how to take care of himself.

_(His parents had made sure of that.)_

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Wayne. Thank you for your hospitality.”

And with one last handshake and a polite nod, Tim slipped away into the crowd, weaving through the people with a practiced ease that only comes with evenings upon evenings upon evenings of galas.

Tim started his search.

It went about as well as one might expect.

Everyone was just so _tall_ , towering above him and blocking his line of sight. He almost wished that he had accepted Bruce’s offer of help, if only because Mother’s disappointed look and scolding would be better than being left behind when his parents went home at the end of the night.

(Again: it wasn’t the first time they had left him behind.)

Tim sighed.

This was fine, he could work with this. Perhaps if he just maneuvered to the front door, he could wait for his parents there and join them as they were leaving?

It was a better plan than haphazardly weaving his way through the crowds, at least.

He turned to head in the correct direction, only to stumble directly into one of the other guests. Flustered, he took a step back, only to bonk into the leg of another man.

He tripped, took a step to the side with apologies on his lips, feeling his shoe slip on the trail of a lady’s fancy dress  before he was floundering around and falling backwards, smashing into one of the pedestals holding one of the many art exhibits of the evening, his head knocking smartly on the cold marble floor.

There was intense pain for several seconds, and Tim hissed and curled into himself, placing his forehead on his knees and trying to stop the too fast beating of his heart. Everything felt a little distant at first, but then the pain slowly started fading until he could focus once more.

He looked up, put his hand down onto the ground to help himself up, and froze upon feeling of glass.

Slowly, _slowly,_ he looked behind him.

_Oh no, oh no, oh no-_

A vase.

He had completely shattered one of the ornate vases that had been displayed all over the ballroom.

Completely shattered one of the very, very expensive ornate vases.

His breath hitched, standing on wobbly legs and hands coming to wring themselves. He was _shaking,_ because he had said he would be _good,_ and yet- and yet-

And he had done everything _wrong._

Mother was going to be so upset and Father so disappointed and they were going _to leave him again_ and he was going to _be alone again_ and even _Mr. Wayne was going to hate him so much-_

It was then that Tim realized that no one was bothering him and scolding him. That he was just standing up by himself unbothered, even after breaking the vase. That someone was talking loudly and jokingly, that Tim should probably be paying attention.

He blinked, rubbed tenderly at the back of his head. Turned around.

He was met with the sight of Bruce Wayne talking to the rest of the guest, including Tim’s parents. The man was loud, smiling brightly and looking sheepish, and it took the boy several seconds to realize what he was saying.

”-can’t believe I knocked over my own vase- eh folks? I suppose that’s what happens with one too many drinks!”

Tim blinked again.

But- he wasn’t- Tim was the one who- _what?_

_What!?_

It hurt to think. His brain felt slow, his head was pounding. His thoughts were sluggish and loose, not quite grasping onto the spiderweb trail of connections that they usually do. He knew he had banged his head. Maybe this was a concussion?

_Concussion Symptoms: Loss of consciousness after any trauma to the head, confusion, headache, nausea, blurred vision, short term memory loss, perseverating-_

He waved the thought away, blinked, tried to focus.

He felt dizzy.

He turned back around, glanced at Bruce, who was still talking about being clumsy. He glanced down at the shattered glass, realized he had a few small cuts on his hands.

 _How to deal with glass cuts:_ _Stop the bleeding by_ _applying direct pressure on the area_ **_._ ** _Clean the area with warm water and gentle soap. Apply an antibiotic ointment to reduce chance of infection. Put a sterile bandage on the area. In some people, antibiotic ointments may cause a rash. If this happens, stop using the ointment..._

Tim blinked. He had zoned out again.

Bruce was waving people away, insisting that everything was fine.

Bruce had been… covering for him?

Why would he do that?

What did he _want?_

Tim felt shaky and jittery, not wholly there. He felt slow, his thoughts trickling along and easily diverted from the problem at hand.

He wondered if this is what his classmates felt like. No wonder they found school so hard.

And then suddenly Bruce was in front of him.

Tim took a step back, slightly off balance, but the man reached out and grabbed his arm, keeping him steady.

Tim didn’t know what to do. Somewhere, he realized that his parents were watching, that he should be worried about that, but all he could focus on was Bruce. Bruce, who was right there, close and safe and covering for him. Bruce, who looked worried. Bruce, who had taken him to get ice cream and water and was smart and had good conversations.

Bruce, who was sort of looking at him like he looked at Richard.

_Oh._

“I’m really sorry for tripping you up, Tim. Are you hurt?”

Tim opened his mouth, closed it.

Opened it again, because yes, he was hurt. There were cuts on his hands and his head was aching a bit like how he imagined Zeus’ head hurt when Athena was trapped inside it, pounding and pounding and pounding away until she could be released into the world.

He caught Mother’s gaze. Mother looked murderous.

He closed it again.

Blinked.

People were waiting for him to talk. They were waiting for him and he was taking too long to respond, but his thoughts were like waves on the sand, he couldn’t make them _stay,_ they just kept wavering in and out, in and out, in and out of focus, and his head _hurt._

Finally, he heaved a breath.

“I- I’m fine, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce Wayne didn't look like he believed him. Tim wouldn’t have believed himself either.

He resisted the urge to apologize. Bruce had pretended to knock over the vase for him for reasons that Tim didn’t quite understand yet. Bruce wasn’t angry at him, only concerned. Bruce had given him ice cream and good conversation and a small little bit of attention that Tim desperately craved every day, even if he tried to pretend he didn't.

Bruce had helped him, and Tim was lying to him.

His Mother’s eyes narrowed.

“I-” said Tim. His throat felt too dry again, he could feel the press of what felt like tears in his eyes- _don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry you’re not allowed to cry, if you cry Mother will be even m o r e angry-_ and Bruce was looking at him like he could see all of Tim’s windows past all the mirrors.

“Mr. Wayne! I’m afraid that Timothy might need a bit of a early bedtime after all the excitement! Thank you _so_ much for inviting us. C’mon, Timothy.”

Tim hesitated. He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay with Bruce.

But there wasn’t any choice. His parents were already _so angry_ and Tim had already screwed up so much. Bedtime meant scolding, he was sure, and one couldn’t just skip it.

So he said quietly, “Bye, Mr. Wayne.”

Turned to go.

Stopped.

If anyone asked later, he would blame the concussion. In fact, it was very probable that the concussion played a very vital part of lowering his inhibitions, so it wouldn’t even be a lie.

He turned back around, gave Bruce Wayne the quickest, fastest hug he could, the smallest whispered, “Thank you,” breathed against that man’s neck.

Then he turned and all but ran to his parents, looking at the ground and refusing to look anywhere else, especially not up at the older Drakes.

They walked out of the gala, and the scolding lasted for over an hour when they got home, concluding the lecture by telling him his behavior meant not being allowed to come on the next trip, or the one after that.

Tim listened and accepted. He would do better next time.

( _I'm trying, I'm trying- Please-)_

(It could have been so much worse. His parents didn’t know about the vase, if they did, Tim as sort of scared about what they would have done.)

Later, when his parents went to bed, Tim would creep down the stairs and wash his cuts and put on ointment and place bandages. He’d hesitate, because according to some of the kids at school people were supposed to kiss these things better- although he hadn’t found any scientific evidence of this in his research- and then hastily pressed his lips once against all the bandaids just in case there was some merit to it.

He would find the stepstool he kept in the closet and use it to reach the freezer and get some ice packs for the swelling knot at the back of his head.

He would clamber up back to bed and tuck himself in, would lie and stare at his blank ceiling, and when he finally he fell asleep he dreamed of a hallway or mirrors and a thousand of his own reflections, of stumbling through one chamber after another, trying to find a way out.

He would dream of hearing his name, of seeing a window that had no reflections of himself, just Bruce.

Bruce would be gesturing for him, the window thrown wide, and Tim would go through that window, and everything would seem okay.

He would be enough.

That would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I sort of went Hamilton at the end.... oops?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
